


The Source and the Fulfillment

by randi2204



Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Meta, Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: Tim woke up on the floor of his apartment with a hangover pounding through his head.Except that when he opened his eyes, it wasn’thisapartment.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [farad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** Justified and its characters belong to Sony, Bluebush, et al., not to me.

Tim woke up on the floor of his apartment with a hangover pounding through his head.

Except that when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t _his_ apartment.

Oh, most of it was the same, but there were things inexplicably missing.  The dog tags that he’d draped over the lamp on the headboard.  The gun-safe he kept under the bed.  His fucking _badge_.

(He found a gun under the pillow, but it wasn’t _his_.  The dog tags were wrapped around it.  His badge, though, wasn’t to be found anywhere in the damned place, and he didn’t like the implications of that _at all_.)

While carefully unthreading the dog tags from around the grip (the fucking asshole whose gun it _was_ had left it _loaded_ ), Tim said, “So, what this is telling me that I either got so sick of Raylan’s eternal drama that I turned in my badge and gun and bought a new one – and if I did that, by the way, why the hell didn’t I get a better one than this piece of crap? – or there is some other strange and serious shit going on.” The hangover wasn’t as bad as some he’d inflicted upon himself since returning from Afghanistan, certainly not bad enough to be coming after a blackout where he’d been drunk enough to resign, but sober enough to convince Art to accept it.  So strange shit it was.

Once he had the dog tags removed, he jacked out the clip and the chambered round (Christ Almighty, he thought, shivering at what _that_ implied) then put the pieces back under the pillow.  If the asshole returned, at least his stuff was all where he’d put it originally.

And yes, the fucking tags _did_ say Gutterson.  Well, shit.

The cell phone he found had several missed calls, all a couple weeks old; the only outgoing calls were to various takeout or delivery places Tim recognized.  There were some outstanding bills on the table, and a checkbook showing a balance of nearly zero, and he began to understand why the asshole who lived here had his gun under his pillow with a round chambered.

Maybe the tags around the grip were all that was keeping the asshole from killing himself.

Tim had never been one for science fiction or all that other weird shit; his daddy hadn’t been real understanding of any opinion not his own, and he’d liked fishing, football, and guns, in pretty much that order.  When it hadn’t been football season, he’d watched Nascar. 

The wonder there wasn’t that Tim hated Nascar, but that he liked guns as well as he did.

But while he’d never been able to watch Star Trek or Doctor Who or any of those other weird shows his friends had talked about sometimes, Tim had at least heard about alternate universes and how they might come about – how choosing a blue tie instead of a red one could change the course of events and split off a new timeline, blah, blah, blah.  It was a load of bullshit.

But this… this apartment, the gun, the tags, the lack of his fucking _badge_ …  This was some crazy fucked-up shit, Tim decided. Like alternate universe crazy, defcon level fucked-up.  And the Tim Gutterson who lived in this universe looked like he was about three steps closer to eating his gun than Tim was.  If, that is, the location of his gun was any indication.

_Christ,_ he thought, _hope that asshole ain’t in my universe fuckin’ things up.  That’d be all I need, to get back there and have Art bust my ass for whatever PTSD-inspired shit this other me has done._

So this Tim Gutterson had opted _not_ to join the U.S. Marshal Service after discharge.  _Man,_ Tim thought, _I hope to Christ you had some kind of backup plan to just fucking around being shell-shocked, because I don’t think it’s working out for you.  It’s not gonna work out for_ me _, I can tell you that._

Once he got through all his vitriol at the Tim Gutterson who belonged in this universe and his poor decisions post-Army, that left only one thing to think about, and of course it was the one thing he’d been trying to avoid thinking about since he realized where he had to be.  _How in the fucking_ hell _am I gonna get back where I belong?_ He flopped back on the unmade bed, hands over his face.  _Because I have_ got _to get back before Art fires my ass._   He blew out a sigh.  _Well, if Raylan is operating to spec, at least that asshole who should be_ here _won’t make me look like too much of a fuck-up…_

_Raylan._   Tim pulled his hands away from his face at the thought and blinked up at the ceiling.  _Raylan thinks everything revolves around him… maybe whatever the hell it is that brought me here is about him, too._

In a flurry of movement, he grabbed his keys, paused to make sure they fit the lock on the door, then set off for the Marshal office.  He was still in Lexington and while he had found a set of car keys, his apartment wasn’t far from the courthouse.  He felt a stab of unease for leaving the asshole’s gun beneath the pillow, but he hadn’t found a gun safe, and with any luck, no one breaking in would think to look there.

He didn’t run, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but he did walk quickly, because people were less likely to bother someone who looked like they had a purpose.  Which was in direct opposition to what he’d learned in Afghanistan, but civilians were… different.

Raylan’s big black Lincoln wasn’t anywhere to be seen at the courthouse, but that didn’t have to mean anything.  He could be out actually capturing a fugitive for a change instead of chasing down to Harlan.  It wasn’t _likely_ , Tim allowed, but it was _possible_.

For a moment – longer, actually, more like almost five minutes – Tim debated going inside.  He recognized Art’s car, and Rachel’s, in the parking lot, and if they were both here… how different could it really _be_ from where he came from?

Instead, he headed back to his apartment – well, _the_ apartment, since it wasn’t really _his_.  _Wouldn’t do any good to go in,_ he decided.  _If the asshole who belongs here doesn’t work for the Marshal Service, they won’t know me, and it might only be making trouble for him._   _You hear that, asshole?_ he thought toward the Gutterson who actually belonged here.  _I’m not making life hard for you here, you’d better not be making life hard for me there!_

“Mister Gutterson!”

He twitched at the call of his name, dropping his hand from the door into the apartment building.  “Yeah?” he grunted, then wished he hadn’t when he saw the person who’d addressed him was a pretty young woman.  “Sorry,” he said, offering her a smile.

“No, it’s okay,” the woman said, smiling back.  “I’m just glad to see you getting out!  I was a little worried – your mailbox is next to mine, and it looked like it was pretty full.”  She gestured toward the mailboxes in the entryway.  When he glanced toward them, he could see that the one that was his back home had envelopes sticking out the door.

He turned back to his neighbor – though sadly he couldn’t remember her from back home – and nodded, his smile widening slightly.  “Thanks for looking out for me.  I’ve been a little forgetful the past few days.”

“Oh, my pleasure, Mister Gutterson,” she replied, cheeks reddening.  “I hope I’ll see you again soon!  Bye!”  She hurried away, but he couldn’t help but notice that she looked back at him over her shoulder as she adjusted her purse.

Quickly Tim let himself back in, emptied the mailbox – almost all of it past due notices, and he thought, _what the_ fuck, _asshole?_ – then headed back to the apartment.  Sitting at the table, he sorted the mail, but mostly was considering what he’d learned so far.  _The girl didn’t seem to realize that I’m not the same guy who’s actually been livin’ here,_ he thought, tapping an envelope on the table absently.  _If I look as bad as that asshole must…_ He rubbed a hand over his face.  _Fuck, I’ve got to get my life together._

_But before that, I’ve_ got _to find Raylan so I can get_ back _to my life so I can get it together._   Tim took a deep breath, let it out slow.  _Well, Gutterson, you got a computer here?_

What he found was… disheartening.  Or rather, it was what he _didn’t_ find.  He didn’t have all the resources he was used to using, just Google and his imagination.  But still… there were no references to a Marshal Raylan Givens in Lexington, or in Miami for that matter.  _Christ, what if he’s dead?_ Tim rubbed his forehead.  _Just my luck – stranded in another universe because the incompetent prick I need to get me home has gone and got himself fucking_ shot.

But there were no death notices, no property in Raylan’s name, nothing.  The only thing he found was an _ad_ on _Craigslist_ , of all fucking things.  And despite his shock that Raylan was internet-savvy enough to post a Craigslist ad, the most shocking thing was the contact information.  In Harlan.

“Huh. What the fuck are you doin’ in _Harlan_?”

Raylan _hated_ the fact that he’d come from there, hated that the only options for Harlan boys were crime and the mine, all of it tied up with the fact his daddy was so twisted – by ‘Nam, by his own upbringing – that he’d beat his wife and kid.  Raylan tried so hard not to have anything to do with that place that he about twisted himself, too.

Tim left the cursor blinking in the search field and sat back, staring at the laptop screen without seeing it. 

So.  If he was in an alternate universe – not much arguing that anymore – he was the only one he knew of who knew it.  That kind of shit didn’t seem like it could possibly end well, like if he told anyone, he’d end up in the psych ward faster than you could say “No wet packs please.”

_Guess it doesn’t matter,_ he thought.  _At least I know where he is, and can get to Harlan without too much delay.  Sooner I get there and back, sooner everything’ll be normal again.  Or as close to normal as it gets these days._

Before he left, though, he grabbed that piece of shit gun from beneath the pillow and slid the clip back into place.  If he was going down to Harlan, where Raylan was, he was fucking well going to take protection. Trouble followed Raylan around closer than his own shadow.

The car keys fit a ’98 Honda Civic with one door almost rusted out.  The engine protested, whining and chattering, but eventually it turned over.  “You have got to get out more, asshole,” Tim muttered to the steering wheel.  He stopped to fill up on the way out of the city, because _of course_ the fucking tank was riding on E, but once that was done, it was clear sailing down the highway.

Once he got into Harlan, he slowed down, paying close attention.  There were no signs or house numbers, but at least he remembered the turns to take to get to Raylan’s old house.

He was easing his way up the long track that pretended it was a driveway when it occurred to him the old man might still be around.  _Well, that won’t be good,_ he thought as he pulled up next to a pickup that looked older than he was.

Tim had only just gotten out of the car when a woman – older, fierce, with eyes that missed nothing – came up to the screen door, though she didn’t open it.  “Can I help you?” she asked, but her tone implied that she’d rather help him shuffle off his mortal coil.  Just by the way she stood, he could tell she had a weapon of some kind hidden just out of sight.  _Guess I’m lucky she didn’t come out on the porch and point it at me,_ he thought wryly.

She looked familiar; she actually looked a little like Raylan, so that probably meant that this was his Aunt Helen.  “Yes ma’am,” Tim said, giving her a little smile.  “I’m lookin’ for Raylan Givens.  Is he here?”

The woman’s face froze at the mention of Raylan’s name.  “What’re you lookin’ for him for?” she demanded.

“He’s not in any trouble, ma’am,” Tim replied, half-raising his hands, and thank God he’d done that research before coming to the house.  “I was in the area and I just wanted to ask him about an ad I saw, somethin’ he was sellin’…”

She relaxed slightly at that, but her demeanor was still frostier than he expected.  “Well, he don’t live here, and he wouldn’t be here now at any rate.  Check at the mine; shift’ll be changing soon.”

Tim managed a smile.  “Thank you, ma’am, I appreciate—”

“You’re welcome,” she said, but he knew he was anything but when she closed the inside door and engaged the lock.

_The mine_ , he thought as he got back into his car.  That was telling, and he didn’t like what it was telling him.  Not only had Raylan not made it out of Harlan at all, he hadn’t even made it out of the _mine_.  Tim had wondered… but then decided no, Raylan had hated working the mine, and from the little he’d said, his Aunt Helen had moved heaven and earth to get him the hell out.

Then, just for a second, he wondered something else.  What had Raylan said after shooting Boyd Crowder that time? _We dug coal together_.  Like that was reason enough _not_ to kill the man who’d tried to draw down on him.

If Raylan hadn’t made it out of the mine… had Boyd?  Boyd had gone into the Army, like Tim himself had, had blown shit up overseas, then come back to blow shit up stateside.  Was Boyd’s daddy still in prison?  And if he was, just who the hell was running the drug business?  “Aw, Christ,” Tim groaned, throwing the car in reverse and backing down the driveway.  “I don’t need this shit.”

Eventually it occurred to him – took longer than he’d like to admit, actually – to wonder just where Raylan was living if he wasn’t living up at the Givens’ homestead.  _Of course,_ he thought, _if Arlo is still there, it’d make sense, Raylan not wanting to be there._   He frowned as he took the turnoff that would lead to the mine.  _Doesn’t explain why his aunt is so… prickly about him, though._

_He musta done something she don’t hold with,_ he thought, then grinned.  _Maybe he’s livin’ in sin with that girl, whatshername – Ava.  Well, good on him, then – at least there’s no case ridin’ on whether or not he can keep it in his goddamn pants this time._

There weren’t a lot of places to watch the entrance to the mine and still be inconspicuous, so he parked the Honda down the road and took up a position in the undergrowth.  But at least he didn’t have to wait too long; it wasn’t a quarter of an hour after he arrived that he heard the shrill of a whistle.  _Shift change,_ he thought, and focused on the entrance and the figures milling about there.

Another few minutes, and even though he was fucking _expecting_ it, he still couldn’t quite believe his eyes.  It didn’t seem possible, but there it was, the evidence of this craziness; Raylan walking out of a coal mine… alongside Boyd Crowder.

They each wore the same drab coverall, each covered head to toe in coal dust. Their faces were smudged with it, too, except where they’d worn respirators and safety glasses; even the creases at the corners of their eyes were black.  Hard hats and lunch boxes swung from their hands.

But the strangest thing – no, really, the very strangest thing, stranger than the fact that Raylan wasn’t a marshal, that he hadn’t even made it out of the fucking coal mine – was that Raylan was laughing at whatever it was that Boyd had said.

Not throwing his head back laughing, Raylan hadn’t ever done that.  But… chuckling.  Smiling.   _Like he meant it_ , Tim thought, all unbidden.  His crow’s-feet were even more prominent than usual.  He bumped his shoulder against Boyd’s as they walked along.  Boyd’s smile already looked like it was about to split his face, but somehow it got just that little bit wider.  He bumped Raylan’s shoulder in return, looking just about pleased as punch.

And as they crossed to the parking area for the miners, Tim just stared.  _This ain’t the Raylan I know,_ he realized.  It _looked_ like him – same grey coming in at the temples, same easy, rangy, gunslinger walk, same unshaven scruff that Art let him get away with, God knew why – but he wasn’t the same.  Because for all that he’d sworn up and down he’d hated working in the mine… somehow, he seemed content now.  Maybe even _happy_ , fucked up as that was.  Something had changed, something drastic.

Raylan and Boyd walked across to a pair of beat up old Ford pickups, one of which Tim recognized instantly from all the BOLOs Raylan had called on it, and he wasn’t surprised when Boyd got in the driver’s side.

He _was_ surprised when Raylan got in the passenger seat instead of into the pickup sitting alongside.  Raylan slammed the door and rolled down the window, looking comfortable sitting next to the man that Tim might have said was his mortal enemy, if such things really existed.

_Should go and talk to him,_ Tim thought, feeling sluggish, _might have to in order to get back…_ He took a step away from the Honda, but every step was a struggle, every movement like swimming against an undertow.  If he’d been pinned into place on a corkboard, he could have moved faster.

Raylan laughed again, shaking his head at whatever it was Boyd had said, and Boyd was still grinning as he jammed the old pickup down into gear.

_Move your ass, Gutterson,_ Tim ordered himself, remembering the voice of his drill sergeant, the one that still motivated him even now.   But Boyd’s truck was rolling out of the parking lot now, and he’d lost his chance.

Then, suddenly, Boyd turned his head and looked right at him, as if he’d known Tim was there in the brush all along.  Those dark eyes caught his and held them the whole while Boyd was making the turn to head down the mountain, and he only looked away when continuing to watch Tim would have been an anatomical impossibility.

_Follow him,_ Tim thought, and turned back to the car.  But the undertow hadn’t let up on him yet, and by the time he flopped into the driver’s seat, he knew it was too late; Boyd and Raylan were long gone.  And Tim was still here where he didn’t belong.  “Fuck.”

He’d thought, somehow, that finding Raylan would be the thing that got him sent back to his own universe, and if he did it quickly enough, then maybe he could just convince Art that he’d been having a piss-poor day and he’d promise an extra session of counseling that he’d never actually go to.

But it hadn’t worked.  He’d found Raylan, sure enough, but whatever magic or mojo or whatever-the-fuck it was that had dragged him here hadn’t sent him back where he belonged.  _Jesus Christ,_ he thought, and resisted the urge to bang his head off the steering wheel.  He was starting to understand the asshole whose place he’d taken a lot better, and he’d felt this crushing weight before, recognized it well.  Despair didn’t lead to any epiphanies; it was just the worst fucking thing _ever_.   _What the fuck am I gonna do_ now?

Well.  There wasn’t any point in sitting there any longer.  The engine turned over easier this time, like it knew he wanted to get gone, and he pointed the car back down the mountain.

Dark had fallen by the time he got back to Lexington.  He’d just about resigned himself to a long haul stay here – joining the Marshals again, training at Glynco, hoping to Christ he could get posted in Lexington and not give himself away.

The only light in the apartment when he let himself back in was from the laptop; he’d left it on, and it hadn’t gone into sleep mode, or something had woken it up.  The asshole who belonged here and was now in Tim’s universe permanently fucking up his life had left the browser open, so Tim had just used another tab for his searches.  One of the other tabs had a little red dot trying to get his attention.

There was a new email, no subject, from an address he didn’t recognize.  Usually that meant penis enlargement spam or other weird shit, but what the hell, maybe this day hadn’t had enough weird yet. He clicked it anyway, and stared dully at the screen.

_Go to sleep, Marshal Gutterson,_ it said.  _I assure you, all will be right with your world when you wake.  I regret that you were taken up as you were, and if I had known that it had happened, I would have let you know sooner._

Then, as if it were added as an afterthought: _I know you have no reason to believe me when I say this, but I truly have his best interests at heart._

It was unsigned, but Tim knew just who had written it. The tagline at the bottom didn’t seem to fit, though: _I live and breathe black magic.  I’m so tainted with it that I will use it without thought, without guilt and without hesitation. –Kim Harrison_

Hope was a dangerous thing; he could feel it trying to beat back the black despair that he’d driven back to Lexington under.  Reckless with it, he hit Reply and pecked out, _If I wake up and I’m not where I belong, I’m going to find you._

A response wasn’t long in coming.  _Then I consider myself fortunate that you’ll be where you belong.  Good night, Marshal._

Tim hesitated only a moment before deleting the messages and closing the laptop.  _I’m still makin’ your life easier, asshole,_ he thought toward his counterpart. _I hope you fuckin’ well appreciate it._   He took the gun from his waistband and unloaded it again, then stuck it underneath the pillow where he’d found it, with the dog tags.

For a moment, he stared at the bed, then sighed, rubbing his forehead.  _Superstition, shit,_ he thought.  _Crowder, I hope you’re right, because I will fuckin’ well shoot you if you’re not._   He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and laid down on the floor.  _I am not jinxing this._

When he woke up again – with another pounding headache, goddamnit, and not even the pleasure of drinking the night before – everything was, indeed, right with his world.  Gun, dog tags, badge, all where they were supposed to be.  He didn’t breathe a sigh of relief, but it was a damn close thing.

He still hadn’t figured out what he was going to tell Art when he got into the elevator, but the truth was right out.  _Yeah, Art, sorry I didn’t make it in yesterday, but you know how it is when you get sucked into an alternate universe…_ That wet pack he’d been concerned about would become his new reality.

Wonder of wonders, he met Raylan coming out of the Marshal’s office, and the other marshal seemed to be in a hurry.  “Raylan,” he greeted, sidestepping to let him through the door.  “Somethin’ goin’ on?”

“Tim,” Raylan answered, polite as you please despite the permanent frown on his face.  “Naw, I just gotta go see Boyd… rattle his cage about a murder and a robbery… or maybe a robbery and a murder.” He shrugged and settled his hat on his head.  “The order of events is none too clear.”

“Want any company?” Tim called after him as he strode to the elevators.  There was just _something_ …

“Thanks, but no,” Raylan tossed back over his shoulder.

Tim shrugged and entered the office.  Rachel eyed him as he sat down, but didn’t say anything.  Art didn’t call him in to rake him over the coals – _just as well_ , he allowed, relieved, _because I still don’t know what to tell him_. 

And other than Raylan rattling Crowder’s cage, it was a slow damn day in the Marshal’s office.

Chasing down to Harlan was an all-day affair, and Tim wondered, just for one idle moment, if that was why Raylan did it, despite his loud and frequent protests.

Then suddenly he recalled that _other_ Raylan, the one who stayed, bumping his shoulder against Boyd’s.  Boyd’s smile, so wide and _real_.  _I truly have his best interests at heart. “We dug coal together.”_

“Shit,” he breathed, one hand to his forehead, and wondered how the fuck he hadn’t seen it before.

“Tim?” Rachel called softly.  When he turned to her, she gave him a look he interpreted as concern rather than anger – eyebrows quirked, slight frown – made easy by the way she continued, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied.  “Just a headache.”  And he was lying right now, but he certainly planned to have a headache tomorrow; there was a bottle at home just begging to be finished.  The problem was he knew he couldn’t drink enough to forget this little revelation.

In this – just as in the world that Tim had visited – Boyd Crowder was the beginning and the end.

***

March 30, 2017

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the [fic_promptly](http://fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org/) prompt: [Justified, Tim, Boyd Crowder was the beginning and the end.](http://fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org/255806.html?thread=9807166#cmt9807166)
> 
> Fara's prompt reminded me of a verse from Revelation: I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and last. I wanted to use part of that as the title, but thought folk might get confused and think this was an ABO fic. So I used the words from an Aramaic translation instead.


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